Stay
by anonvagabond
Summary: Can a one night stand turn in to something more?


She rolls over and groans as she begins to regain consciousness. The distinct sound of bones cracking fills the silent room as she stretches out her limbs. The red numbers on the clock read 4:37 am, she should really go. She sits up and leans her head back against the padded bed frame, taking a moment to inhale deeply while drawing in the smell of sex and sleep. She rubs the remnants of sleep out of her heavy eyes, smudging dried mascara off her lashes on to her delicate eyelids. She turns her head to look at the figure next to her, watching his chest rise and fall, drinking in the way the moonlight grazes over him, highlighting his sculpted arms. She desperately wants to stay, and that's why she needs to leave. She scoots to the edge of the bed and pushes herself off the mattress. She hears him mutter in his sleep as she relieves the mattress springs of her weight.

She tiptoes around his room in search of her scattered clothes. The moon doesn't light up the room so she searches blindly, calling upon her memory. Her memory fails her as she stubs her toe on his dresser. She covers her mouth with her hand, her teeth sinking in to her fingers as she struggles to keep the yelp and curse words from escaping. As she continues the search, she feels something prick her foot, something that feels like underwire. She bends down and feels it out, it's her bra. She pulls the straps up her shoulders then reaches behind to hook it. She takes a moment to adjust her breasts, making sure they look perfectly round and perky. The whole thing is ridiculous because who would be seeing her at this ungodly hour? Right next to it lies her crumpled blouse. She huffs while buttoning it, thinking about having to get it dry cleaned. She's misses a button and the shirt is uneven, she momentarily debates whether or not she should re-do it. Glancing at the clock once again she realizes she has no time and so she pushes her neurotic tendencies aside. She finds her pants but no underwear. This wouldn't be the first time she's left a piece of clothing behind, she really needs to start keeping track of where she throws things in the heat of the moment (which she knows won't happen, she's been losing her expensive underwear for years now, leaving the men she's conquered with a little souvenir before she disappears forever).

Regina creeps over to her slacks haphazardly thrown on the floor, bends over to pick them up and quietly sighs, cringing. Wrinkled fabric slides between her fingertips as she silently steps into each pant leg and shimmies it up to her waist, zipping up the front and buttoning it closed with nimble, shaky fingers. She walks to get her phone by the bedside table and jumps back as she sees the bedside lamp light turn on.

"Fuck! Don't scare me like that." She yelps, placing her hand over her heart, feeling it beat a mile a minute.

He clears his throat and balls his fits as he rubs the sleep out of his deep blue colored eyes. They remind her of the ocean, and they make Regina question if she would be okay with drowning. Snap out of it.

"Where do you think you're going?" He accuses softly, it's not aggressive, no in fact if it's anything its hurt.

"Robin." She sighs, and she should have known better, should have followed her gut on this one and never spoken to him. She can tell he's not like the rest; he won't just let her leave.

"Come back to bed." He says while sitting up, pulling the covers up, welcoming her back. He glances at the clock. "Regina, its 4:45 in the morning, come back to bed."

She hesitates, she really really should go, but she desperately wants to stay, just this once.

"I'm not asking you to marry me, just come back to bed, it's late, or rather, very early, and I don't like the thought of you roaming around at this hour." He pleads.

"I can take care of myself." She snaps. Men, always trying to abuse, use or take care of you; they can't ever just let you be. (she won't admit that she likes the thought of being taken care of).

"I know that." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "It would just make me feel better. Please, stay with me. For my own peace of mind?" he continues to plead his case, widening his eyes, using every trick he knows. "I'll cook you breakfast tomorrow morning and then you can leave." And how is she supposed to say no to those pouty lips and earnest eyes?

"Fine." She groans and she begins to undress once again.

She observes as his eyes darken with lust as he watches her unclasp her bra, memories of their amorous activities that took place only hours earlier filling his mind no doubt.

She sits and feels the bed dip beneath her. Before getting a chance to adjust herself his arm snakes around her pulling her into his side. The warmth of his body comforts her and seeps into her veins and she feels the warm everywhere, but not the kind coming from arousal, just _warm_.

"Were you really going to leave without your knickers?" He teases, whispering in to her ear while dangling her purple silk panties in front of her.

She turns quickly to smack his shoulder causing him to chuckle and fling them on her side of the bed.

"Robin?"

"Hmmmm."

"No breakfast tomorrow." She warns

"Just go back to sleep." He says while running his hands down her thighs.

Sleep takes them both only minutes later.

* * *

She wakes up to the smell of bacon, and she could kill him, truly. She drags herself out of bed, taking one of his sheets with her, and heads to the bathroom. She stares at her face in the mirror and is mortified by the thought of him waking up and seeing her like this, with mascara smudges to her hairline, tousled hair and swollen lips. She looks debauched, Cora would kill her. She finds his forest scented soap (she smiles remembering insulting him about his choice of soap even though she quite likes it) and washes yesterday's makeup off.

She peers out the door, checking if the coast is clear before exiting.

"Good, you're here."

She gasps. Twice in a row he startles her, idiot.

"Where else would I be?" She retorts.

"Given your track record of attempting to sneak out in the dead of night, I thought you might have gone down the fire escape." He chuckles.

She could listen to him laugh forever, the sound is like honey; rich, thick, soothing.

"Well, I should go." She mutters while glancing around the room trying to spot her clothes.

"Not so fast." He says while making his way toward her. "I made us breakfast."

"I may have been a little sleepy, but if I'm not mistaken I do recall telling you no breakfast." She censures firmly. She already stayed the night, breaking rule number one, she wasn't about to have breakfast with the man.

"Oh come on." He whines playfully. "You need to eat, I have food. I made a lovely breakfast, don't let it go to waste."

She stays silent, eyeing him carefully while weighing her options.

"There are people starving out there, it would be a shame-"

"Using the poverty card to get me to eat breakfast with you?" She quirks an eyebrow. "How nice."

"Please?" There's the pouty lip and blue eyes again, she thinks.

"Fine." She huffs, sounding like a spoiled child.

"Here." He hands her a forest green oversized shirt that has "Merry Men" printed across the chest.

"What's this for?" She questions suspiciously.

"Well, you'll need your hands to eat, so you won't be able to hold up the bed sheet, unless eating in the nude is okay with you, because it's okay with me." he pauses, biting his bottom lip, fuck that's sexy. "But in case you don't like eating naked, your clothes are hardly comfortable enough for breakfast." He explains

"My clothes are just fine thank you very much."

"I was under the impression women liked to steal men's shirts? Or have I been reading an outdated version of Cosmo." He teases. A smirk makes itself known on his lips as he watches her roll her eyes.

"Suit yourself." She drops the bed sheet, letting it pool at her feet. His jaw drops and she's terribly pleased with herself, finally getting him to shut up. She closes the distance between them, swaying her hips in the process, and stops an inch away from him. She leans in like she's about to kiss him, his breath hot on her skin, the steady thump of his heart beginning to quicken in anticipation, but instead she rips the shirt out of his hand. She turns around, giving him the perfect view of her plump ass, something she recalls he enjoyed touching the night before. She lifts up her hands and puts her arms through the openings before pulling it over her head, it falls right above her knees, fitting her like a nightgown. She turns around, and now she's the one who wears the triumphant grin. He swallows thickly and she can see him trying to conceal his growing erection that begins to make itself known in his cotton pajama bottoms.

He brings her to the kitchen island where the table is set and the plates are filled. She has to admit she's mildly (very) impressed. She takes a seat on the tall chair and tests to see if it spins, it does. Robin grins as he watches the whole thing unfold, and she schools her features immediately.

They fall into conversation quickly after she teases him about his cooking skills, and he pokes fun at her attempted escape last night. He's an architect, that explains the nice house she thinks, and she the head of a huge PR firm. Even after breakfast is long over and the remaining coffee has gone cold, they continue talking, teasing and flirting. The domesticity of it all makes her heart flutter and her cheeks flush. She can't remember the last time she was this happy, just sitting and conversating. He's terribly charming and Regina can see herself getting in too deep. Her mind constantly scolds her, telling her it's time to go, but her cold battered heart feels that warm again and tells her to stay, please stay. So she does, just a little longer, and then a little bit more until hours have gone by.

The conversation takes a turn after she asks about the picture of the boy on his fridge, _my son Roland_, he replies. She vaguely remembers him mentioning a Roland, not realizing it was his son.

"He's with his mom this weekend." Divorced, she thinks, not that she's in any position to judge. "And you, any children?" he asks.

It's a simple question, one she's been asked dozens of times before and always responded with a _yes, henry_. But now, now things are different, her son's cruel words replay in her head; _you're not my mom_, and her heart clenches at the memory. She can feel this wonderful breakfast start to unsettle her stomach, she swallows thickly, resisting the urge to vomit out of nervousness, because she's made peace with this, peace with the fact that everyone she loves leaves her.

"A son, Henry." she breathes, her voice barely audible.

"Sleepover?"

"No, he actually is living with his birth mother right now." she hates that she can't look him in the eye, that she feels so small when she talks about this, but most of all she loathes that she's let a perfect stranger see the ugly parts of her life. Instinct takes over and she decides it's time to leave, her brain screams I told you so.

"Oh. I'm sorry." he says, not exactly knowing what to say to that she assumes, because what does one say to that?

"Anyway." her voice is tense and unsure, very different from the flirtatious tone she had been using less than five minutes ago. He must pick up on it because he's looking at her differently, suspiciously. "I need to get going, I've been here long enough and i have things to do." she gets up and walks toward the bedroom without looking back.

Within minutes she's dressed and collected.

"I'll call you." he smiles sincerely while escorting her to the door.

"Mhm." she steps forward and reaches for the doorknob, she doesn't doubt that he will, her worries lie in whether or not she'll pick up.

He places a hand on her shoulder and gently tugs it, making her turn around and face him. "I really like you."

"You shouldn't." and with that she steps out the door, shutting it behind her.

* * *

Weeks go by and he's relentless in his pursuit of her even though all his calls go straight to voicemail. He's not sure what it is about her, but from the moment he laid eyes on her he knew he was finished. He recalls the way she moaned his name while digging her fingers into his back, the way she looked when she slept, her laugh, and the sadness in her eyes when she spoke about her son. He wants it all, the good, the bad, the fractured pieces of her heart: everything.

* * *

She gives him credit for his persistence, but this time she listens to her brain by sending every call to voicemail. Weeks pass and the calls slow down, but don't stop completely.

Tonight, after a long day at the office she finds herself coincidentally walking down a familiar road tonight, past a very familiar bar, and stops right in front. She knows he's there, she's not sure how knows, but she does. She opens the door hesitantly and her feelings were correct; he's sitting at the bar in his (their) spot, hunched forward a little with a stout beer in hand. It's her stupid fucking heart that makes her go inside, that forces her to walk up to him, that pushes her to grab the lapels of his jacket and press her lips against his. She hears whistles and cheering in the background but pays no attention to it because she's stuck in the vortex of his warmth. Suddenly her brain wakes up, asks her what the hell she thinks she's doing, so she pulls back, fear and anxiety starting to take over, but he doesn't let it. He pulls her back in to the kiss, his tongue warm in her mouth, reassuring her, letting her know he wants this, _all _of this.


End file.
